


their wicked minds

by holding_out_for_a_reunion



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holding_out_for_a_reunion/pseuds/holding_out_for_a_reunion
Summary: This—this was safer, Nezumi realized. He did not need Shion's adoration or his fondness. He needed Shion tounderstand. He needed Shion to see him as he was: not a friend, not a companion, not a lover, but a weapon. He needed Shion to see him the way everyone else did.Shion was in danger the longer he fed this delusion—the longer he tried to convince himself that there was any chance in the universe for him and Nezumi to be together."Do you get it,Senator?" Nezumi asked, snapping the words off like a gunshot. Shion's shoulders shot to his ears. "I'm not here for you tolikeme. I'm a murderer, here to protect you and kill for you. I'm nothing but a weapon, a tool—a piece of property.""You're not," Shion murmured, and Nezumi could see the tears shimmering in his eyes. "You're so much more than that, Nezumi."Or:Shion is a Senator in the Intergalactic Imperial Senate, and Nezumi is a bioengineered super soldier assigned to be his bodyguard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare/gifts).



> Greetings and salutations, my darlings! This is my first story here on Archive, and I am extremely excited to be posting it. I deliberated with myself for quite a long time about which of my fan fictions I wanted to work on first, but this one just seemed to be screaming at me, so I decided to go with it. It probably also helped that I've had a bit of an obsession with the science-fiction genre for a couple weeks now. That helped me get this chapter finished; hopefully I'll be able to keep that motivation going throughout the remainder of this story.
> 
> I'm not entirely certain how many chapters I have intended for this one. I know what I want to have happen, but it's just a matter of finding a way to display the chapters and keep the story interesting. Hopefully I'll be able to do it in a way that keeps you, as the reader, interested throughout the remainder.
> 
> This story was originally inspired by both George Lucas' _Star Wars_ and _The Diabolic_ , written by S.J. Kincaid. The name of the bio-engineered super soldiers in this fan fiction are named after and inspired by the creatures in Kincaid's work, so I am looking forward to developing this story.
> 
> This is dedicated to one of my favorite authors here on Archive: **nezumiprefersdanielleovershakespeare**. I've been an avid reader of her stories for quite a while, so it pleases me greatly to be able to post this.
> 
> Here's hoping that you all enjoy this first chapter!

Nezumi had spent the majority of his life trapped inside a reinforced-steel corral, so it was nothing new to be put inside the ancient Diabolik transport ship, appropriately named the _Endurance_ , and be strapped to a transport board.

 

The _Endurance_ was an old cargo ship—curved at the front, possessing windows only on the front, stuffed with thin storage rooms that had been converted into transport rooms. Each room was set with a large metal slab, stretching from the floor to the domed ceiling, surrounded by reinforced-steel beams on the off-chance a particularly awful bout of turbulence allowed the Diabolik to escape.

 

The transport room Nezumi had been tucked into was slightly smaller than the others, not much larger than one of the broom closets he had seen in the bio-engineering plant the first time he’d attempted to escape. Had Nezumi had less training, less hours of pain and verbal abuse and physical assaults to transform him from a sniveling boy into a hardened warrior, he might have found his current quarters quite claustrophobic.

 

Somewhere in the front of the ship, through the thick steel walls, Nezumi could hear the two Service techs piloting the _Endurance_ offering each other useless advice to one another and trying to get the stereo to work. It was possible that the radio waves were being intercepted by the tiny way stations located around several red dwarfs, but that didn’t stop the Service techs from trying.

 

Nezumi had no windows in his transport room, and very little light behind the blinders strapped around his face, so he had no real way of knowing how quickly the _Endurance_ sliced through the expanse of space. Not at an impressive speed, he imagined. The _Endurance_ was almost two centuries old and no longer well-maintained from the looks of it; it served no purpose other than carting Diabolik VCs, after all.

 

The sole purpose of the _Endurance_ was to shuttle purchased Diabolik VCs from the bio-engineering plant located on the ice moon closest to Gamma-87, a rather impressive Red Giant on the outskirts of the Milky Way, to the large cluster of planets surrounding Andromeda 13.

 

Nezumi had been well educated about the star system he would one day be sent to. Andromeda 13 was a Blue Supergiant, and the central point of the Citadel—the headquarters for the Intergalactic Imperial Senate.

 

The Intergalactic Imperial Senate was the largest political body in the galaxy. Countless planets had been part of the decision to permit the Senate to create the laws each planet would abide by, had permitted the Senate to act as the spokespeople of the galaxy, had elected officials from each planet to gather together in the Citadel and be the ones to decide how to handle natural disasters, famine, social unrest, and on the rare occasion, alien invasion and war.

 

Nezumi despised not being able to see where he was or where he was going, but he was a Diabolik. A VC, with no rights and no say in where he was being sent or what would happen to him when he arrived.

 

Through the metal walls, Nezumi could feel the _Endurance_ slewing and lurching through the frigid expanse of space, the large hunk of metal almost too large to navigate smoothly through the asteroid fields found in most parts of the galaxy—debris from damage planets, destroyed moons, and floating bits of ships that had been wrecked in the first Intergalactic War.

 

Though his arms were crossed over his hips and secured beneath thick leather straps, Nezumi found it comforting to know that, in the case of a crash, he was properly secured. The amount of effort the Service techs had gone to keep the Diabolik VCs from escaping made it impossible for him to perish, unless the whole ship was engulfed in flames or obliterated. The battle-honed instincts in his body protested the fact that he was unable to move of his own accord, completely at the whim of humans.

 

Nezumi swallowed the bout of rage that coiled in his stomach. Diaboliks, especially VCs, were not meant to show emotion. Cold, emotionless killing machines, created with the express purpose of acting as tools for war or bodyguards to important nobles and politicians.

 

“Can’t be much farther now,” said one of the Service techs. She sounded young, not much older than Nezumi imagined he must be—time passed in the bio-engineering lab, but VCs were not informed about the true length of time or what it meant. Nezumi could have been there for days, months, or years.

 

“This your first time transporting VCs?” asked the second Service tech. She sounded much older than both Nezumi and the first Service tech; the trembling of her vocal cords reminded Nezumi of the elderly stable master in charge of training each Diabolik from the moment they were born.

 

Nezumi remembered the stable master. A slight, bent little thing; the bones in his wrists and shoulders looked fragile as glass, and his hands shook around the metal cane he used to hold himself upright.

 

Nezumi had learned to fear him from a young age. When he was much smaller, void of muscle and short enough to barely see over the bars of his personal corral in the bio-engineering lab, the stable master had proven how foolish it was to underestimate him. Diaboliks were built to be stronger than normal humans, each of their bones filled with silver adamant to prevent them from shattering under intense pressure. And yet the stable master, who was nothing more than absolutely human, had cracked Nezumi over the head with his cane when he’d been foolish enough to run his mouth. The cane shattered the bones in Nezumi’s nose, and when the stable master brought it down again, the bones in Nezumi’s jaw snapped.

 

It had taken him a long time to recover. The only reason he hadn’t been scrapped outright was do to the fact that he continued to train, even with his jaw bandaged and his head pounding.

 

Nezumi had grown stronger since that day, strong enough to take a blow from a metal cane and not collapse in a bleeding heap, but he never spoke back to the stable master again.

 

“How long you been doing this?” asked the young Service tech. Her voice was filled with youthful wonder, specific to humans under the protection of the Intergalactic Imperial Senate. It would get knocked from her soon enough.

 

“Hmm,” replied the older Service tech, and Nezumi heard her fingers drum on the control panel as she tried to think. “Fifty years or so? I was one of the Service techs who carted Major over during the Third War.”

 

“Major?” asked the young Service tech, and Nezumi could practically hear the way her nose must have crinkled at the name. “You mean that AC Diabolik who got promoted into a Military Lieutenant by the Emperor?”

 

“The very same.”

 

“AC-113239,” recited the young Service tech, like some education droid reading numbers off a panel screen.

 

“Yes, that’s right.” The older Service tech’s chair made a low groaning sound when she turned. She must have been a larger woman than the other, since Nezumi had no idea when the other one twisted or turned. “An AC who was granted a rather prestigious title, one reserved only for _human_ soldiers. The Emperor was met with a bit of resistance for that decision—but it’s not as if the title _means_ anything. Diaboliks aren’t human. It’s nothing but a formality, really.”

 

“The Emperor makes a lot of weird decisions,” said the young Service tech.

 

“Don’t let any of the ACs hear you say that,” replied the older Service tech. Her tone was light, however, as if she did not care one way or the other who overheard their conversation. “They’re designed to be absolutely loyal to the Intergalactic Empire.”

 

“Of _course_ they are. They aren’t real people. They’re weapons. Simple-minded, emotionless, built with one purpose and nothing else.”

 

Nezumi could practically hear the disdain in the young woman’s voice, and for some odd reason, he felt amused by it.

 

The _Endurance_ rattled a bit as Nezumi imagined small asteroids bumping against the sides. The leather straps across Nezumi’s legs, hips, arms, and chest tightened against his black uniform. He shifted his neck, stiff from several long hours of inactivity. The artificial gravity in the transport chamber pressed down around his broad shoulders.

 

The _Endurance_ , although it was much older than any of the other ships in the Intergalactic Military, was built to be tough—a few asteroids wouldn’t even scrape the metal, let alone hope to damage the ship. Nezumi had gotten a decent look at him when the stable master had guided him and three other VCs out of the bio-engineering lab and onto the ship docking bay.

 

Shaped like a bloated missile, curved in the front and narrow in the back, the _Endurance_ had originally been designed to skirt through asteroid fields in order to transport much-needed supplies during the first wars. It had no purpose as a cargo ship now, not with so many way stations and luxury vacation stations being built around the star system.

 

Nezumi had never seen a Luxury liner ship, although he had heard of them. Now and again, Senators and nobles came to the bio-engineering lab to hand-pick the Diabolik VC they wanted as a bodyguard. Acs were taken as bodyguards, on occasion, but more often than not ACs were built and reserved for the Intergalactic Military.

 

VCs were smaller and much more slender than ACs, who had been designed large and bulky. VCs were built to be faster and more “portable”, the stable master had once explained. The Citadel was created with the comfort of normal humans in mind—the hulking size and lumbering slowness of the AC Diaboliks never would have fit in the low-hanging and narrow hallways.

 

Luxury liners were not reserved for transporting Diaboliks to the Citadel. One could not expect the Empire to provide a luxury liner to transport weapons and multi-terrain assault vehicles, so how could one think that the Empire would provide luxury liners for Diaboliks?

 

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” spat the older Service tech. The _Endurance_ made a sharp lurch to the side, and Nezumi winced as the leather straps bit into his thighs.

 

Nezumi was grateful that the transport ship seemed to be a bit warmer than the bio-engineering lab. The black uniforms Diaboliks were required to wear—form-fitting, crafted of a stretchy material that wouldn’t rip or change shape no matter what movements the Diabolik made—were not designed to keep body heat in. Much of the time, the bio-engineering lab was frigid. “To prepare you for harsh conditions,” the stable master had said. Any VC who complained had their fingers broken. Nezumi had learned to accept it with a stoic face.

 

“Not too far from the Citadel’s docking station,” said the young Service tech. “Can’t believe how easy this whole thing is—I thought transporting VCs would be a hassle.”

 

“Sometimes it can be,” replied the older Service tech. “Sometimes, if you’re unlucky, you get a batch that are defective, and they try to escape and take over the ship. We have defense mechanisms in place for that, but there have been a few close calls.”

 

“Is it true that their blood is gray?” asked the young Service tech. “Someone in the Citadel told me that Diaboliks had gray blood.”

 

“It’s _silver_.”

 

“Eww. That must look so weird.”

 

Nezumi narrowed his eyes behind the blinders. He set his jaw.

 

“It’s the same color as their eyes—pure silver.” The older Service tech’s chair groaned as she shifted once again, this time accompanied by the clattering of buttons on the control panel. “I’ve only ever seen one of them get slaughtered on this ship. She made it all the way to the control room, so I shot her between the eyes. Her brain was silver and white and left a nasty mark on the wall. Took forever for the maintenance droids to clean it off.”

 

“That’s so gross,” said the other Service tech with a shudder. Nezumi wrinkled his nose and wondered how _gross_ it would be if it were her blood and brains splattered all over the walls.

 

“Well, gross or not,” the older Service tech said, “we’ll be docking soon.” The clacking of control panel buttons was loud and insistent, and because Nezumi was already annoyed with the both of them, it only made him even more annoyed.

 

"Good, I’m starving. Want to grab a bite to eat once the cargo’s unloaded?”

 

 _Cargo. Gross. Not human_. Nezumi had been called much worse throughout his life. He was a Diabolik—a VC who had known from the moment he was born that he was less than human. Impossibly strong, frighteningly quick, but nothing more than an unthinking, unfeeling killing machine.

 

The _Endurance_ would be docking soon, and Nezumi would be delivered to a Senator. He would spend the remainder of his existence guarding a human—a human who would treat him like a piece of furniture, a tool, a servant and a weapon and nothing more—and Nezumi would have to remain silent and obey.

 

He closed his eyes behind the blinders and drew in a deep, harsh breath. He tried not to think of how close he was to arriving in the Citadel. He tried not to think about the Senator he would be assigned to. He tried not to think about the giggling Service techs at the head of the ship, dropping their comments and giving their opinions without being prompted. Nezumi closed his eyes, listened to the sounds of buttons clacking, chairs groaning, and asteroids thumping against the _Endurance_ , and tried not to think.

 

* * *

 

The Capitol Building in the Citadel was one of the tallest buildings in the city. It was stout and massive, topped with a massive glass spire that glittered with miniature rainbows at sunrise and at sunset. The Capitol Building stretched up into the clouds, dwarfing the surrounding skyscrapers and Senate apartment complexes and villas.

 

Senator Shion of Chronos had spent the better part of his term in the Senate located in the Citadel. It was a far cry from the comforts of his mother’s bakery in Chronos, but Shion found that he enjoyed it all the same. He appreciated the change in scenery, the things that he didn’t see in Chronos that he doubted he would see anywhere else.

 

The Capitol Building was located at the center of the Citadel, crafted of pearl-colored marble and slotted with blue and green and gold and pink stained-glass windows.

 

The interior of the building was just as impressive as the outside, its towering dome encircled with row and rows of suspended platforms intended to support the Senators of the Intergalactic Empire, representing the majority of the galaxy’s habitable and civilized worlds.

 

The location of each Senator’s platform referred to the population of the planet the Senator represented. Smaller planets with a few villages or a single large city were located closer to the floor, while planets whose surface crawled with human life were granted platforms closer to the beautiful dome. In the wake of the Third War, when a few planets had been ravished by enemy forces, several of the Senators had been forced to surrender their original platforms and move closer to the ground level.

 

Currently, the walls of the circular building echoed with thousands of voices chattering all at once. A wave of emotions fluttered around the room—ranging from anger to concern to regret to failed attempts to keep order.

 

Shion kept his hands folded on the podium in front of him. Several floors down from his, Senator Safu of Alaara stood in her own podium, no doubt having a conversation with the Senator positioned next to her.

 

Not for the first time, Shion wished the population of Chronos was smaller, so he could be closer to her. Senator Yamase of the Senturan Galaxy was the other Senator he felt the most comfortable around—but Yamase was several floors up from Shion, and even if he shouted, Yamase and Safu would never heard him over all the arguing.

 

In the center of the main platform, stationary and incapable of rising or descending, Chancellor Fennec watched and listened to the various Senators arguing with one another. His cold green eyes flickered around the dome, his mouth pressed into a tight line. His silver hair was cropped close to his head, military-style, and his thin hands were peppered with age spots. It was difficult to see just how slight he was beneath the voluminous robes of gold and white that he wore, decorated with badges and medals of honor to commemorate his acts of heroism in both the Second and Third Wars.

 

At his side stood a slender young Diabolik with shimmering golden waves of hair that curled around his chin, his sun-kissed skin shimmering in the artificial light of the dome. From a distance it was impossible to see the brutal silver of his irises, but when he turned his head, the light would watch them and flicker like shocks of lightning.

 

Shion was close enough to the Chancellor’s podium that he could see the way his hands shook, could see the threats lingering in the eyes of his Diabolik. Shion knew several Senators who possessed a Diabolik or two, but he had never owned one. He understood how Diaboliks were supposed to be viewed—as weapons, as pieces of furniture, as _property_ —and Shion had never appreciated that.

 

“Conquest,” murmured the Chancellor, raising one trembling hand to the Diabolik looming at his side like a shadow, “would you please return their attention to me? Thank you.”

 

The Diabolik stepped to the front of the podium. He rolled his shoulders back, the sleeves of his black uniform glittering like the scales of some large beast. He bent forward, pressing his lips in front of the microphone and bellowed: “ _Silence_.”

 

His voice was sharp and sudden, clanging through the speakers positioned around the room. Conquest was a rather young Diabolik, but his skills in combat were legendary. There were rumors that, during his time in the corral, only one of his sparring partners had ever walked away alive. Conquest was tall and slender as a beam, but he _was_ a Diabolik.

 

The chatter, the thousands of shouts and private conversations and protests, came to a grinding halt. Shion flinched; the Diabolik’s voice echoed through his head, making his ears ring.

 

Conquest stepped back from the podium and nodded to his Master. Chancellor Fennec reached out and stroked his trembling, wrinkled fingers through the Diabolik’s corn-colored hair. “Good boy, Conquest,” he said, and then he approached the microphone and lowered his head.

 

His odd position only heightened the tension, made the Senators on the surrounding podiums shift and turn to their own personal Diaboliks and chew on their lower lips. Shion shook his head and glanced up and over his shoulder; Yamase was positioned up and to the right, and Shion could see the way his lips were pursed and his eyes were narrowed.

 

“My esteemed colleagues,” began the Chancellor. His voice trembled and shook. Several Senators made curious little sounds, but otherwise, no one spoke. “It is with a heavy heart that I must relay to you some tragic and disturbing news. I have just been informed that Senator Illero of Maas Ait has been—has been assassinated.”

 

A shock wave of silence darted through the crowd. Shion’s heart seized behind his ribs. Below him, he thought he heard Safu give a strangled gasp. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yamase’s fists clench.

 

“This is an especially grievous loss to the Senate,” said Chancellor Fennec. “Senator Illero was a dear friend of mine before my time serving as Chancellor. He was an outspoken public official. His dedication to his people, in times of peace, in times of war, served as an inspiration to Senators everywhere. Senator Illero could have been a Chancellor someday—would very much have liked to see that.”

 

All around the room, a few conversations began: shocked murmuring, a scattered handful of wails, and a couple of younger Senators whispering to each other about the Second and Third Wars.

 

Shion twisted his hands around the hem of his red and white senatorial garment. He hadn’t known the Senator of Maas Ait _personally_ , but he’d been influenced by many of the Senator’s movements. Illero had fought to reform the Imperial Senate, eliminating the laws that dehumanized citizens base on social class and working to outlaw inhumane animal pit fighting. Shion admired the man—and like the others in the Capitol Building, Shion was reeling from the sudden loss of such a great man.

 

“Senator Illero believed in equality for all,” said Chancellor Fennec. He heaved a great sigh and shook his head, as if the whole thing was just some awful dream. “And while I admired him, I had to disagree with several of his personal views. He never possessed a Diabolik—he wandered around the Citadel without proper protection, all because he believed the possession of VCs to be _unethical_.”

 

The buzz of disgusted murmuring surged around the room. Shion set his jaw. Possessing Diaboliks was common for most Senators—only a handful of them, Shion and Safu and Yamase included, did not have one. It _did_ seem unethical, Shion believed, to act as if someone was nothing more than a weapon or a piece of property.

 

Shion clenched his fists on the podium. He wished he could have discussed law reform with Senator Illero, if he despised the possession of VCs so intensely. There had been several attempts to outlaw the production and use of Diaboliks, several failed attempts to gain freedom and citizenship for those who lived in the Citadel. Shion had been present for more than a few of them.

 

From the bottom of the Capitol Building, Shion watched one of the older Senators lean forward on her own podium and crane her neck up to see the Chancellor. Her hair was twisted on top of her head like a dark crown of vines. Her scarlet eyes glimmered as she bellowed, “How many more Senators have to die before this nonsense comes to an end?” She flapped her hands around the room. “We have the resources to shield them—how much more death must we be subject to?”

 

The boldness of the Senator’s statement forced others to come forward in their own podiums. One of the young Senators, a little boy by the name of Drana Max, surged forward and wailed, “Why are ACs not permitted as bodyguards?”

 

“The Citadel is unsafe,” bellowed another, the Senator from the remote ice moon floating around the gas planet Iopa. “We need Diaboliks now more than ever!”

 

“Our army consists of nothing but defective ACs,” argued another Senator, a tall man with willowy green hair and golden eyes that seemed to glow like fanned embers. “We need a mass overhaul of our worthless agents.”

 

“And would you expect us to subject _humans_ to those wretched conditions?” bellowed Senator Arista. Not three days ago, Shion had invited her and her wife over to have tea with him and Safu. He found himself regretting it now. “Diaboliks are built for that!”

 

“And we should trust ourselves to inhuman killing machines?” snarled a Senator from two levels below Shion’s podium, somewhere next to Safu.

 

Chancellor Fennec raised his hands for silence. His Diabolik—Conquest, Shion remembered—took a threatening step forward. The muscles in his jaw twitched. Shion hunched his shoulders, preparing for the loud snap of his voice, but the Chancellor opened his mouth and announced, “Calm yourselves, my friends. Calm. Our primary goal here at the Citadel is the safety of every man, woman, and child.”

 

“How can you say that,” shouted Yamase, “when you refuse to give your citizens the tools they need to feel safe in your city?”

 

Chancellor Fennec folded his hands in front of his chest, prayer-position, and waited.

 

At his side, his Diabolik gnashed his teeth.

 

“Senator Yamase is right!” chimed Senator Ni-Maka from the Romula Nebulae, the bells wound around her countless braids clanging together. “There are those of us who cannot afford Diaboliks—how can _we_ expect to feel safe?”

 

Shion wrung his wrists. He ached to speak, to protest that it was not necessary to “own” a Diabolik, that Diaboliks were not pieces of property to be purchased and carted around and assigned, but he doubted he would be heard about the screaming, the bellowing, the waving of fists.

 

“Require all Senators to own a Diabolik!” called one of the Senators.

 

“Have you lost your mind?” shrieked another. “How is it fair that we’ve had to pay for ours when no one else has to?”

 

Safu’s voice echoed from below Shion’s podium: “You cannot require all Senators to own a Diabolik. To those who find their usage _unethical_ , it would be cruel to force that on them.”

 

Several Senators booed, while the handful who disagreed with the service of VCs cheered. Shion offered his own small “whoop” of agreement, but otherwise he kept quiet. He doubted he would be heard, and if he was going to make a valid point and be listened to, then it would be on different terms. He glanced at Chancellor Fennec and determined to converse with him privately after the meeting’s conclusion.

 

The Chancellor raised his wrinkled hands for silence. After a few moments, the arguing died down. No one was eager for the Diabolik to bellow into the microphone again. “My esteemed colleagues,” he announced, “in these difficult times, exceptions must be made in the interest of public safety. VCs have become a necessity. There are those of you who have expressed displeasure due to the fact that your Diaboliks were obtained only through an immeasurable monetary donation—and to those of you, I promise that you will be receiving compensation for the purchases you’ve made.”

 

Gradually, at first, but then more quickly, the Capitol Building filled with the sound of pleased cheering. Shion’s heart jumped into his throat.

 

“And it is with great pride that I propose a new law,” the Chancellor announced. “During these times of hardship, of terror and of uncertainty, I have been convinced to provide each and every Senator with a Diabolik, to be assigned within the next several days.”

 

“No,” Shion said, the word tumbling out of his lips. The sounds of cheering erupted from the lower sections of the Capitol Building, while those above buzzed with excitement at the process of getting their money back for their frivolous spending in the name of protection. “Chancellor Fennec—just a moment!”

 

But Shion’s voice was drowned out by the thunderous applause of the other Senators. Below him he thought he could make out the sound of Safu pounding her hands on her own podium, protesting the Chancellor’s choice, but her voice was swallowed by the crowd.

 

And so Shion stood with his jaw set, his gaze wandering around the circular room, watching the looks of relief wash over the countless expressions of Senators from around the galaxy. He clenched his fists. He did not want a Diabolik. He would never agree to this. He drew in a deep breath, stilling the trembling of his breath. All around the room, Shion watched the expressionless faces of several Senator’s Diaboliks. Servants. Bodyguards. Property. Shion despised thinking of them like that.

 

Shion looked over at Chancellor Fennec, feeling his face flush with rage. The Chancellor did not so much as glance in his direction. He raised his hands, calling for order, and demanded, “In the wake of this new development, I understand that there are several of you who need time to adjust to this change. We will pick up on our discussion in the morning, when new developments on the dispensing of VCs will surface. Until then, I declare this Senate meeting adjourned.”

 

* * *

 

When the _Endurance_ docked some time later, Nezumi waited for the security guards to come and release him from the transport slab. His was the room closest to the ship’s doors, so he expected to be the last one released. There were two other VCs being transported with him—Nemesis and Agony, from the same generation and central corral as Nezumi—and since they had been loaded first, it was likely they would be unloaded first, too.

 

Nezumi rolled his shoulders beneath the leather straps and felt them bite into his skin. He wondered if the security guards had tightened them on purpose. Nezumi had a reputation of being quite volatile, so it stood to reason that humans would want to take extra precautions.

 

The extra security measures were completely unnecessary. Even if Nezumi was to escape the leather and the reinforced steel and the security-code-locked door of his cell, there was no chance of him getting off the ship. It was practically crawling with ACs who were loyal to the Intergalactic Empire and security guards with electricity guns meant to rip through the adamant-filled bones of Diaboliks. The humans’ only real weapon against the super soldiers they had created.

 

Nezumi flexed his fingers to keep them from falling asleep. He twitched his toes, tucked in the heavy black boots the stable master had insisted on providing him with. Nezumi repeated his codename over and over in his head—VC-103221, Nezumi—because he knew he would be required to introduce himself to his new Master, and he refused to mess up or stumble over his words.

 

When he was beginning to get unbearably antsy, due to an immeasurable length of being unable to pace or walk on his hands or backflip off the walls or run laps around the small enclosure, the metallic doors slid open with a whir and a click.

 

Two security guards, dressed in dark green armor from head to toes, faces obscured by helmets with gold visors, padded into the room. One of the clutched an electricity gun and kept it aimed at Nezumi. “VC-103221,” said the one without the gun. “Assigned to Senator Shion of Chronos, under the strict orders of Chancellor Fennec.”

 

 _Chancellor Fennec_. Nezumi had heard the name all his life. The Chancellor was the head of the Senate, the mouthpiece of the Emperor. The stable master had shown the training Diaboliks video clips and news feeds of the elderly Chancellor, with his spotted hands and disarming smile and cold green eyes. Nezumi remembered that his first impression of the Chancellor had been how easy it would be the snap his throat, how easy it would be the shatter the bones in his wrists and leave him in half on the ground.

 

The security guard with the electricity gun marched over to the barrier surrounding Nezumi, the rings of reinforced steel bars, and stuck the muzzle of the weapon through. The threat was obvious: _move without being told and get slaughtered_.

 

The other security guard unlocked the small door allowing access to the transport slab. He hurried over to the leather straps and began to undo them with deft, skilled fingers. Keys jangled in between his armored fingers as he freed Nezumi’s legs, and then his hips, and then his wrists and his chest. Nezumi dropped from the slab and landed on his feet. He did not stumble. He did not stagger. He was a trained super soldier, and he would not falter in front of humans.

 

“VC-103221,” repeated the security guard, stepping back enough that, if Nezumi were to move, the other guard would have a clear shot at him. “Codename: Nezumi.”

 

Nezumi nodded, once, like he’d been trained to do. If there wasn’t a gun aimed at him, he would have shot forward and broken the guard’s neck just for the hell of it. A quick and fairly painless death—far more than these wretched humans deserved.

 

The security guard gestured to the open doorway and guided Nezumi out of the enclosure. Nezumi’s legs were stiff and sore from the lack of movement. He refused to stumble. He walked with his bare arms at his side, his chin set and his shoulders squared. The perfect weapon. The muzzle of the electricity gun remained trained on the back of his head as he stepped out into the ship’s hallway to join the other Diaboliks.

 

There were other security guards standing in the hallway, and all of them were holding electricity guns. The guards had positioned themselves in a circle around the other two VCs, Nemesis and Agony, aiming for vital spots that would leave no chance for the Diaboliks to survive. A good Diabolik would continue to fight until their last breath.

 

Nemesis had come from the same corral as Nezumi. He was a short slip of a thing, coming up only to Nezumi’s shoulders, narrow enough to slip through the tightest gaps in the corral’s training course. Nemesis was in the same tight black-uniform, except his was longsleeved and ended in points on the backs of his hands. When Nezumi met his silver gaze, Nemesis nodded his head once in greeting. His copper-bright hair stuck out around his chin and ears in sharpened spikes. Nezumi had suspected, on more than a few occasions, that he and Nemesis had come from the same exact breeder, or perhaps even the same sire. Nemesis had the same elegant nose and high cheekbones that Nezumi had.

 

Agony was taller than Nezumi by half an inch, and much curvier. Her hips were wide, and her bust was much larger than that of other VCs. Her dark hair fell down her back in a glossy braid; long hair was not common for most VCs, as it was a hazard in combat. Nezumi had only witnessed Agony dueling once in his time training in the corral, but she had trained herself to use her braid like a whip and take out her opponents. Her hard silver eyes narrowed when she was Nezumi, but otherwise her dark face remained void of emotion.

 

“VC-009712, codename: Agony,” recited the security guard as Nezumi went to stand in between Agony and Nemesis, in the middle of the ring of gun muzzles. “Assigned to Master Rikiga of the Citadel.” He nodded over to Nemesis, whose face remained utterly blank. “VC-207514, codename: Nemesis. Assigned to Senator Yamase of the Senturan Galaxy. And finally, VC-103221, codename: Nezumi. Assigned to Senator Shion of Chronos.” The security guard nodded and clapped his hands together. “Everything’s in order, so let’s move out! The Chancellor is waiting for us.”

 

Nezumi didn’t know if the security guard was talking to him and the other VCs, or to the other security guards. He suspected it was probably the latter.

 

The ring of security guards gestured with their electricity guns, and the Diaboliks marched down the length of the hallway. The _Endurance_ was a large ship, so it took a bit longer than Nezumi would have liked to get to the open doors and the floor panel that stretched from the ship and into the docking bay. The security guards stood close enough that Nezumi was forced to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Agony and Nemesis.

 

The security guards escorted the Diaboliks from the ship and out into the docking bay. Four massive ships sat unoccupied in the massive dome of the bay: several small, personalized starships that could cart Senators and nobles to surrounding moons and asteroids.

 

Nemesis made a strange noise in the back of his throat. It was low enough that Nezumi doubted the security guards could hear it, but Agony did. Her eyes flickered to him. Her stern expression altered into something close to concern, but she schooled herself into cool impassivity when the security guards turned to regard her. Diaboliks were not intended for fear or uncertainty.

 

The massive towers of the Citadel rose around them as Nezumi and the others vacated the docking bay and stepped out into the open-air walkway. It seemed appropriate. Small ships buzzed around like the birds and insects Nezumi had learned about, darting from building to building, depositing Senators and nobles in private landing bays and taxi-cab docking stations.

 

Toward the end of the long, smooth walkway rose a round building crafted of slotted metal beams. Inside, Nezumi could see countless AC Diaboliks marching like hulking black shadows on the heels of security guards dressed in light blue uniforms. Black was reserved for Diaboliks—their Masters were permitted to dress them up any way they chose, with the sole exception that the color scheme remain pitch dark.

 

“Only three VCs this time?” asked one of the security guards at the head of the procession.

 

“A trial,” replied the guard without an electricity gun. “The Chancellor just announced today that all of the Senators will be required to possess one, and he’s expecting some resistance.”

 

“ _Resistance?_ ” One of the security guards poised at Nemesis’ right shoulder snorted. “For extra security?”

 

“Some of the Senators don’t like the idea of owning a Diabolik,” explained one of the others. Her voice was thin and wispy, as if she’d suffered some damage to her vocal cords long ago. “They think they’re—well, that they’re like _slaves_.”

 

One of the security guards made a strangled sound. “Are you serious? People actually think—people actually think of these things are _people?_ ”

 

Nezumi fought the urge to curl his fingers into fists. He scanned the surrounding circle of guards, looked at the electricity guns pointed for his vital spots. He could take one or two of them with him, but he would never be able to dodge the fatal pulses. Not at this close range. He clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t have a clear shot at their vital areas, anyway—covered in armor as they were.

 

“Crazy, I know,” said the security guard without the gun. “Next thing you know, these Senators will want liberation for androids.”

 

The collection of security guards erupted into loud fits of laughter. Nezumi stared ahead at the steel building and tried to swallow down the urge to snap someone’s throat.

 

The Diaboliks followed the security guards into the domed building. Once inside, the wind was replaced by a sweet smelling vapor Nezumi couldn’t identify. It smelled...fresh and soft, unlike the harsh scents of the corral and the sweat-drenched tiles of the training grounds. He’d been trained to identify hundreds of scents—flowers and fruits and cooked meats and nameless poisons—but he found he had difficulty placing _this_ scent.

 

“VC-009712, you’re not being assigned to a Senator, so you’ll be taken to the villa on Ninth Avenue.” The security guard at the head of the procession waved to an opening in the wall that led to another series of open-air walkways, stretching across an open abyss and reaching into a stack of villas and apartment complexes. “Jackson, Shuji, take her there, won’t you?”

 

Two of the security guards broke away from the circle and flanked Agony. One of them pressed the muzzle of the electricity gun against the base of her skull. Agony’s eyes flickered, a muscle in her jaw twitched, but she kept her expression blank.

 

Agony was led away from the group. The other cluster of guards moved so that Nezumi and Nemesis were still surrounded on all sides.

 

Nezumi felt like an animal trapped in a cage. His skin crawled. He flicked his eyes around, taking in the number of security guards, the number of levels inside the dome, the entrances and exits and how to reach them.

 

“VC-103221 and VC-207514 are being delivered to Senators, so the Chancellor wants to get a good look at them before they’re assigned.” The security guard gestured toward the opening dead ahead; through it, Nezumi could see another long stretch of walkway leading across the open abyss, stretching to a massive building set with a stained glass dome.

 

The muzzle of one of the guns slammed between Nezumi’s shoulder blades. He staggered forward before he righted himself, and bit down the instinct to whip around and behead the threat. “Get moving!”

 

“Hey,” snapped one of the security guards, “don’t damage the merchandise. The Chancellor’s paying good money for these things.”

  
_Merchandise. These things_. As the guards led him and Nemesis to the opening and out onto the walkway, Nezumi imagined pressing his palms to the closest guard’s shoulder and sending him plummeting over the side. He flexed his long fingers, curling them in and digging his nails into his palms, to keep from acting on those fantasies.

 

* * *

 

The Chancellor’s main office was located close enough to the Capitol Building that Shion was able to slip away after a brief discussion with Safu, who had expressed her disgust with the new law. “I’m not going to be part of this,” she had said, folding her arms over her chest. “Diaboliks are _people_ , not property.”

 

After giving his identification number and credentials to the guards outside the door, after handing over any weapons and submitting to a bio-scan to ensure he was not using shape-altering technology to hide his true identity, Shion found Chancellor Fennec behind his desk in a spacious and tastefully-decorated office. Standing at the corner of the desk, Conquest lifted his head when Shion marched into the room.

 

“Chancellor,” Shion said by way of greeting, dipping in a little half-bow. Despite his frustration, he had been a member of the Senate long enough to remember his manners. The Chancellor was the stand-in for the Emperor himself, after all.

 

“Senator,” said the Chancellor, rising from his desk on shaking legs and opening his arms. He had a rather disarming personality, all smiles and kind words, but beneath it, Shion knew he could be firm. He would not have stayed in power otherwise. “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“My condolences about Senator Illero,” Shion said.

 

“Yes, a tragedy indeed.” The Chancellor shook his head. “A great loss to the Empire.”

 

Shion nodded.

 

“But, you have not come simply to offer your condolences.” The Chancellor gestured to one of the plush chairs set up in front of his desk; Shion lifted his hand, preferring to stand. “You wish something of me. What can I assist you with?”

 

Shion glanced over to the Diabolik hovering close to the Chancellor. Conquest had arrived on the Citadel less than a month ago, following an assassination attempt against the Chancellor. As the acting spokesman for the Emperor, it stood to reason that the individual holding the Chancellor’s title would require extra protection—Shion just had issues with the fact that the security needed to come at the cost of possessing one of the Diaboliks.

 

“Chancellor,” said Shion, and his voice was strong and steady, “please forgive me for disagreeing with you, but I do not believe that the appropriate response to Illero’s death is to require the possession of Diaboliks.”

 

“You always have been against their presence,” remarked Chancellor Fennec. He raised a hand toward Conquest, as if intending to dismiss him out into the hall.

 

Shion shook his head. “I’m not against their presence, sir. I just do not agree with treating Diaboliks as pieces of property. And to require people who find their forced servitude unethical to own them is...Chancellor, it goes against everything this Senate stands for.”

 

The Chancellor’s eyebrows shot up to his receding hairline. Conquest wrinkled his nose. The look should have been intimidating, but Shion knew he was in no danger. Conquest would not act unless instructed.

 

“Well,” said the Chancellor, folding his hands on top of his desk. “Well, that is a rather, ah, a rather bold statement, Senator. And there are others who feel this way?”

 

“While I cannot speak for other Senators,” Shion allowed, not eager to throw Yamase and Safu into the fray if this meeting were about to take a negative turn, “it is my strong belief that this new law will be met with a great amount of resistance. Diaboliks are not servants. They’re thinking, feeling creatures, the same as you and I, and to treat them like tools is just—”

 

“Thinking, feeling creatures,” repeated Chancellor Fennec. He heaved a dramatic sigh and turned to look out the window, staring out at the great expanse of the Citadel. “An idealistic view, Shion, but nothing more. The Diaboliks, VCs and ACs, are created in a lab. They may _appear_ human, but I assure you, as I have assured others who have expressed the same reservations, Diaboliks are anything _but_ thinking, feeling creatures.

 

“We face a rather troubling time, Senator.” The Chancellor rose to his feet, trembling beneath his robes. He gestured out to the grand buildings, the peppering of starships in the sky. “Your life is a stake, simply due to your position in the Senate. And while it has required me to dip a bit into the senatorial budget, I believe that it is absolutely necessary for every Senator to have adequate protection. And since the Citadel does not have enough security guards to properly shield all of you against these unknown threats, I am forced to hand the job over to creatures designed to handle it.”

 

“Chancellor Fennec,” said Shion, his face flushing with rage, “forgive me for interrupting, but I do not believe the situation is as bad as you—”

 

“Oh, but I _do_ , Senator,” replied the Chancellor.

 

“Chancellor, you’re not listening to me. I am not going to force someone to—”

 

“You are not forcing _someone_. You are owning a _Diabolik_. It is not the same thing.”

 

Shion dropped his hands.

 

“You must understand, Senator,” Chancellor Fennec said, smiling as if everything had already been decided. “In these times of hardship, a Diabolik is hardly a luxury item. It is a _necessity_.”

 

“This is _not_ necessary,” Shion insisted, but the Chancellor’s expression did not shift. He continued to smile as if the argument was won, as if he knew all the chinks in Shion’s armor. And perhaps, Shion realized with a frigid shudder, he _did_.

 

“Do it for me, Shion. Please?” The Chancellor’s green eyes flickered in the artificial light of his audience chambers. Shion noticed the way his Diabolik’s irises glimmering like molten silver. “I will rest easier at night knowing another Senator will not be lost the way my dear friend was easier today.” He dabbed at the corners of his eyes with a purple handkerchief. “I could not stand to lose another one—you are the future of this Empire, after all.”

 

Shion clenched and unclenched his fists. What could he say? He could stand here, in this office, until he was blue in the face, but the Chancellor would never change his mind. He was looking at Shion the same way some overprotective father would look down at his children. Shion might have viewed the expression as condescending from any other man—but the Chancellor did, on some level, care about each Senator as if they were his own. And in some way, despite his disagreements about the method and reasoning behind the Chancellor’s decision, Shion could understand wanting to keep them safe.

 

“You have your reservations,” murmured the Chancellor, “and I respect that about you, Senator. But you worry too little about yourself, and too much about things that are simply untrue. Please, just accept my help.”

 

Shion bit his lower lip. He wanted to keep fighting. He should have dragged Safu up to the office with him, or Yamase—although, he recalled, Yamase had commented about how unfair it was that only those who possessed a large amount of money could possess Diaboliks. Perhaps Yamase did not share his and Safu’s views on the ethical treatment of Diaboliks.

 

“You’ll see, Senator. _Your_ Diabolik will be here shortly, as a matter of fact and then you’ll see what I’ve been saying.” He gestured to one of the plush chairs again. “Now—won’t you have a seat, while we wait for them to arrive?”

 

Shion glanced out the window. He watched the sky, watching the starships fluttering from villa to villa, a testament to human greed and luxury.

 

Next to the Chancellor’s desk, Conquest’s vacant silver eyes flickered toward the window, as if he had sensed something dangerous approaching.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Thank you for your patience in this time between chapters. Last week, I started a new part-time job, and on Monday I began a new full-time job. So those have taken up a fair chunk of my time. I have a good feel for my schedule now, so with luck, I'll be able to keep updating this story (and hopefully others in the future). Thanks for sticking with me in the interim, everybody!
> 
> I appreciate the kudos, comments, and bookmarks that I've received on this story. It's been quite encouraging while I've been working on this chapter. This one is a bit shorter than the others will be, but I hope that you'll enjoy it all the same.

As the lights of the Citadel dimmed, gradually replaced by the natural lights of the few red dwarfs and supernovas on the outskirts of the galaxy, the great, imposing city took on a different look—under the dark sky, the towering skyscrapers transformed into hulkling mammoths, altering from the center of intelligent life to a testament to the horrors of human vanity.

 

The Citadel was the pride of the Intergalactic Imperial Senate, but in the evening it turned into a horrid graveyard of marble and light. The wind that rattled across the domes and high balconies sounded low and long, wailing into the night sky like the lives of so many lost souls.

 

Nezumi and Nemesis stood in the turbolift of the southernmost Senate apartment complex. Nemesis had his back pressed against the plated glass, his hands folded in front of his hips. In the dim light, his hair burned like flames.

 

Beside him, Nezumi stood in the shadows of the turbolift. His hands were at his sides. His spine was rigid, shoulders squared, standing with intent to intimidate whoever stood on the opposite side of the doors as soon as they opened. He thought back to the name the security guard had mentioned back in the _Endurance_ : “ _Senator Shion of Chronos_.”

 

Given the scarce amount of Senators Nezumi had seen come in and out of the bio-engineering lab, he had a hard time picturing anything other than a wrinkled old man hunched over a desk, wheedling away pointlessly about law and morality. He bit back a disgusted shudder. It _would_ be just his luck to get assigned to someone worthless and aggravating.

 

“Nervous, 103221?” murmured Nemesis. He was a Diabolik of few words—a desirable trait—but Nezumi still found him utterly annoying.

 

“No,” he spat between his teeth. He scanned the turbolift for cameras and microphones. He spotted a few lenses jutting from the metal walls, but he couldn’t hear feedback or static.

 

“Of course not,” came Nemesis’ whispered reply. He gazed out the window. “And the sun is purple.”

 

For the briefest of moments, Nezumi contemplated killing him. It would require a bit more effort than it would to take out a human, but Nezumi had no doubt he would succeed. Nemesis _was_ strong, but he was stronger.

 

“You’re thinking of decommissioning me,” remarked Nemesis. Though his expression remained neutral, his shoulders tightened.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Nezumi replied. A lie. Diaboliks were skilled in weaving them.

 

Nemesis lanced him with piercing silver eyes—the distinguishing mark of a Diabolik. Nezumi knew he had the same eyes, and when Nemesis narrowed them, Nezumi saw his dark hair and pale skin reflected back. “If you could restrain yourself,” said Nemesis, rolling his shoulders forward to make himself appear larger than he was, “it would spare the service droids quite a bit of work.”

 

Nezumi set his jaw. He had never cared for Nemesis’ attitude; his own, he acknowledged, was not much better, but unlike Nemesis, Nezumi knew when to keep his mouth shut. He doubted Nemesis would last a week as a Senator’s Diabolik.

 

“If you _do_ plan to decommission me someday,” said Nemesis, angling his head toward the camera lodged in the far corner of the turbolift, “then perhaps I will have done something to deserve it.”

 

“We’re Diaboliks,” spat Nezumi, as if that word explained everything. And perhaps, he thought, it did. A well-trained Diabolik required no prompting to slaughter an enemy. Other Diaboliks were no exception.

 

“You do not take murder lightly, despite what you may say.” The turbolift came to a grinding halt. The sudden jolt of the floor wound have sent a normal human sprawling to the ground; as it was, Nezumi and Nemesis managed to shift their weight to accommodate for the abrupt change. “You’re not Conquest.”

 

The lift door slid open before Nezumi could snap out a threat, or disagree with Nemesis’ assumption, and Nemesis was stepping out into the corridor. The ends of his copper hair flickered in the artificial light of the hall.

 

Beneath the scrutinizing glare of countless cameras, Nezumi walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Nemesis, their boots hammering on the thin red carpet. There were no windows in the corridor—and no security guards, Nezumi realized with a bit of surprise. For a moment, he wondered how dangerous the Chancellor must be to _not_ require a number of security measures in the presence of two full-grown, well-trained Diaboliks. Or perhaps there _had_ been security guards, Nezumi thought, and the Chancellor had dismissed them.

 

At the end of the corridor was a large set of double doors. As the pair approached, the doors slid open with a muted click, and a stick-thin Diabolik slithered out into the hall.

 

Nezumi came to a halt.

 

Nemesis straightened his spine.

 

Conquest narrowed his silver eyes, regarding the two Diaboliks with frigid indifference.

 

It had been quite a long time since Nezumi had last seen Conquest. His gold hair had been longer back in the corral, twisted down his spine in a thick, decorated braid. It was cropped short now, falling around his collar in fluffy curls that seemed better suited to some sort of hound than a killing machine. The form-fitting black uniform he wore made him look pale and washed out; his eyes were too silver, his hair too light, the gunmetal veins beneath his flesh glimmering in the light.

 

The three Diaboliks regarded each other for a long moment. Nezumi watched Conquest’s eyes flicker over his face, across his shoulders and down to his hands. Sizing him up.

 

Nezumi straightened his spine. He raised his chin. He was the same height as Conquest; he always had been, even in the corral. Conquest had _never_ cared for that.

 

Conquest glanced at Nemesis, taking in his calm indifference, his small shoulders. And then his face split into a sadistic grin—a wretched, threatening look. “Well, well,” he purred. His voice was the same soft snap Nezumi remembered from the corral. “Nezumi and Nemesis. Long time, no see.”

 

“Conquest,” replied Nemesis.

 

“If I’d known the stablemaster was going to offer you two,” started Conquest, folding his arms in front of his chest. Around his waist, he wore a bright silver sash. “But I should have expected it. You two were the, ah, _best_ our little laboratory had to offer after I was assigned.”

 

Nezumi narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t been expecting to run into Conquest this early, but he should have know it would happen sooner rather than later. He’d been training the day Conquest was assigned, but rumor had it the Chancellor had arrived to personally pick out his own Diabolik.

 

Conquest continued to size Nezumi up, and so Nezumi continued to stand perfectly still. He and Conquest had been rivals, of sorts, during their time in the corral. In those times, while Nezumi had racked up a reputation as a volatile fighting machine, Conquest had been groomed as an assassin. The sparring partners set in the training ring against him—programmed droids, security officers in reinforced armor, several Diaboliks—had perished in the first five minutes. Conquest was well known for leaving his challengers in broken, bleeding heaps on the ground.

 

Only one of his opponents had ever walked away from the ring with his life. Nezumi still had the scars on his back from the encounter. It’d driven him nearly to death, requiring him to tap into all the strength he had in his body, but Nezumi had managed to sweep Conquest’s legs out from under him and pin him to the ground until the stablemaster had dragged him off.

 

Nezumi knew, as long as he was on the Citadel, that he would have to watch his back. Conquest would never forget that single defeat—would never forget that there was a Diabolik out there who could rival him.

 

Conquest gestured to the great doors rising behind him. “The Chancellor’s waiting for us. We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

 

Nemesis, who had been frighteningly silent, nodded once. He schooled his expression into the blank, dark indifference Diaboliks were known for. It took a great deal of effort, but Nezumi managed to do the same.

 

Conquest offered them both one last, vicious smile, and then his expression dropped. Like a smear of blood being scrubbed away by a service droid, Conquest went from smirking abomination to trained Diabolik in the blink of an eye. He turned on his heel, pressed the doors open with the heels of his palms, and guided both of them into the office.

 

The room beyond was decorated with several plush chairs, perched in front of a rather elaborate desk. A handful of paintings—portraits of former Chancellors and one, framed image of a young man Nezumi guessed was intended to be of the Emperor—were set about the walls. Behind the desk, a massive window offered a view of the Citadel at night, sparkling with man-made stars.

 

The Chancellor was standing behind the desk. His wrinkled hands were set on top of it, speckled with the same brown spots Nezumi had seen on the stablemaster’s fingers. He wore voluminous robes of gold and white fabric, speckled with medals of honor from past wars. Wars that Diaboliks had won for the Empire, wars that had suffered a number of casualties—although none of them would ever be honored, because the creatures that had been responsible for securing victory were not _human_.

 

In one of the plush chairs sat a young man with cropped dark hair. He wasn’t unattractive by any means, not the simple humans who served as Service techs, but he was nothing to stare at. His eyes were flat and brown, a stark contrast to the bright green and blue robes that fell down the length of his body. He glanced over as the doors opened, and visibly shuddered as the three Diaboliks walked inside.

 

Nezumi didn’t pay him any mind, however. His attention was arrested by the human occupying the other chair, and on him alone. He found himself coming to a halt, in the center of the office, as Conquest padded over to stand next to the Chancellor.

 

The third human lifted his head toward the door and blinked at Nezumi. He was unlike any of the humans Nezumi had seen since arriving at the Citadel. He was by no means strikingly beautiful, not in the way Diaboliks were designed to be, but there was something about him that knocked the wind from Nezumi’s chest. Nezumi let his eyes roam across the white and red robes obscuring the human’s small frame. The human’s hands were folded on his lap, and his fingers were thin and delicate.

 

Nezumi thought back to the elderly humans he’d seen in his life. This human was not elderly—but his hair was the color of starlight, framing his face and making his peculiar eyes stand out. There was a light to them, as if one had filled a glass goblet with fresh blood and held it up to catch the glow of the morning sun. Beneath his left eye, a smear of scarlet began, as if someone had pressed their thumb in paint and brushed it across the boy’s cheek. It continued down his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his robes. Nezumi saw it on the back of his left hand, and wondered if it continued all the way around the human’s body.

 

Nezumi took in a deep breath, as he’d been trained to do in a new environment. He could smell the rich scents of the wooden desk, the bite of human sweat, the icy mark of two other Diaboliks. But beneath all of it, all the distracting and hauntingly normal scents, Nezumi found that he could smell something soft. It reminded him of the scents of the first dome, the floral smells he’d learned about in the bio-engineering lab.

 

It took all of his willpower to keep his expression neutral. Something about the white-haired human felt odd—not unpleasant, but unlike the things the stablemaster had trained him to experience. Nezumi’s stomach felt strange, and he found his vision beginning to tunnel at the edges.

 

“Good boy, Conquest,” said the Chancellor, breaking the silence. He reached out a trembling hand and carded his fingers through Conquest’s hair. Nezumi caught the way the other Diabolik shuddered at the touch, the way his irises flickered with disgust. “Recite your identification numbers and your codenames, one at a time.” He gestured to Nemesis.

 

“VC-207514,” announced Nemesis. “Codename Nemesis.” He dipped into a little half-bow.

 

“Nemesis,” echoed the Chancellor. He turned to Nezumi. “And you?”

 

“VC-103221. Codename Nezumi.”

 

“Such a strange codename for a Diabolik,” remarked the Chancellor, and Nezumi bowed his head slightly in the wake of the blatant insult. There was no move he could make against the Chancellor, not here, not with two Diaboliks pressed so close.

 

The Chancellor waved toward Nemesis, and then gestured to the dark-haired man dressed in the green and blue robes. “Senator Yamase, you have been assigned Nemesis. He has been described as a rather quiet thing, so you and your wife shouldn’t have any difficulty forgetting he’s there.” He ushered Nemesis forward, and after a quick glance at Nezumi, Nemesis stepped toward the Senator who would become his Master.

 

Senator Yamase rose from the plush chair. He bowed his head to the Chancellor, and then stepped up to examine Nemesis up close. He was taller than Nemesis by several inches; or rather, Nemesis hung his head when his new Master approached, a sign of submission.

 

“207514,” said the Senator. He caught Nemesis by the chin and jerked his head from side to side. It was a common thing, Nezumi realized—the Senator was examining Nemesis as if he were a piece of meat, looking for any imperfections in his genetic design, any sign that the Diabolik assigned to him would be insubordinate.

 

Nemesis did not respond. He allowed himself to be moved around. He relaxed his shoulders and let the Senator push his lips back over his teeth, allowed him to feel the bridge of his nose and the hollow divot at the center of his collarbone.

 

The Senator walked around Nemesis twice, and then he nodded to the Chancellor. “He’ll do,” he said with a disinterested shrug. Nezumi felt his heart go black with disgust.

 

The Chancellor clapped his shaking hands. “I am so glad you approve, Senator. 207514 was handpicked by the stablemaster just for you. I understand your, ah, reservations about Diaboliks, but I assure you that I have examined his charts myself, and I wholeheartedly believe he will serve your purposes.”

 

“You’re too kind, Chancellor,” said Senator Yamase. He dipped into a low bow. Nemesis did the same, if only because his new Master would likely expect it of him.

 

“You’ve shown some concern about owning a Diabolik, but I’m sure you’ll find that they are quite what you’ve thought, Senator. This will be an adjustment period for you all, but your safety is of the utmost importance.” The Chancellor gestured over to Conquest. The other Diabolik had slunk off to the shadows. His expression was schooled into calm impassivity; behind his eyes, Nezumi saw the flickers of hatred, the concealed rage. “Conquest has served me quite well these years. Nemesis shall serve you, too.”

 

Senator Yamase bowed his head once again. The Chancellor turned to the other human, who was sitting in his chair, quiet as a star. “Shion,” he said, and Nezumi’s chest tightened as he remembered the name he’d heard on the Endurance. “VC-103221 has been assigned to you.”

 

The Senator wore a resigned expression at the Chancellor’s word. He turned to glance over at Nezumi, and his face shifted with curiosity. He rose from the plush chair, his red and white robes sighing around his frame.

 

Nezumi tensed. He continued to stare at the Senator, making mental notes of his movements. _Know your Master better than any other living creature_ , he remembered the stablemaster telling him.

 

The Senator moved in the same awkward manner as the other humans—he had none of the grace the Diaboliks possessed, and the _swish-swish_ of his robes would give away his location instantly.

 

The Senator was watching him. Luminous scarlet eyes locked with his own. Nezumi straightened his spine and glowered at this creature—this _human_ he was intended to obey. He read the expression on the Senator’s face, but he couldn’t see the familiar flicker of superiority in his eyes.

 

Senator Shion wore a resigned, accepting look as he took a step around the chair. Nezumi was taller than him, but not by much. The Senator angled his gaze upward. Nezumi angled himself away, swallowing the bite of aggression that surged through his blood. If this Senator were to grab him like the other Senator had done to Nemesis—but he would have to endure it. He was surrounded by two Diaboliks trained to protect their Masters no matter the cost.

 

“Nezumi?” asked the Senator. His smile and the flash in his eyes were odd—Nezumi had never met a human who looked at him like this, and he wasn’t entirely sure he enjoyed it.

 

Nezumi inclined his head, but did not answer.

 

The Senator did not reach out to grab him. He bent his head forward, folded his hands, and dipped low. The light of the office turned the strands of his hair into starlight. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nezumi. My name is Shion.” He straightened up and then tilted his head back to emphasize Nezumi’s height, and Nezumi realized the Senator must have thought a Diabolik would tower over him.

 

On the other side of the room, Nezumi saw Conquest’s silver eyes narrow. The Chancellor cleared his throat and stood taller. “Senator,” he announced, “I understand your reservations on this subject, but I appreciate your cooperation.”

 

Senator Shion took a step back from Nezumi, but he kept looking at him even as he addressed the Chancellor. “I’m grateful for your concern, sir, although I still do not believe the situation is as dire as you believe it is.”

 

Conquest’s blank expression hardened. Nemesis looked at Senator Yamase, and then Shion turned back to Nezumi and distracted him by saying, “Thank you for coming out here, Nezumi. I’m sorry to have caused you any inconvenience.”

 

Nezumi blinked. The stablemaster’s words came flooding back to him, then: “ _Remember, Diabolik, you might look human, but you will never understand what that means. You are a predator. You are nothing. You are a weapon—and if you ever begin to forget that, I’ll just have to beat you until you understand_.”

 

Senator Shion drew in a steady breath. Nezumi watched his throat, taking note of the way the divot of his collarbone stuck out beneath his robes. It would take no effort to break his neck. And yet, though Nezumi knew he could do it, knew he could destroy this small creature before Conquest or Nemesis could do anything about it, the thought of injuring Shion made Nezumi’s stomach twist. He despised it.

 

The Chancellor was talking to Senator Yamase, but his words were washed away. Nezumi stepped closer so he could get a better look at his Master, this creature he had been designed to protect. Diaboliks were built to put their Master’s lives first; their survival meant for than the Diabolik’s own life. Senator Shion was such a small thing in such an overwhelmingly massive world—anything could hurt him. Anything at all.

 

Nezumi swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. He reached a hand out, steady and slow, and put the tips of his fingers against Shion’s cheek. He had seen one other Diabolik in the corrall do it to her Master. The stablemasters told the Masters it was part of a “bonding process” for Diaboliks, when in reality it was meant to get a “feel” for their new Master.

 

Beneath his hand, Shion felt solid and warm. Nezumi was surprised he didn’t flinch—Nezumi knew his skin was cooler than a normal human’s, and harder. Shion’s skin was a shade darker than his own, but Nezumi’s hair looked like strands of oil as it was reflected back in Shion’s eyes. It was strange, he thought, to see something other than superiority in a human’s eyes.

 

Shion’s lips tipped up at the sides, and then he was smiling—warm and brilliant and unlike anything Nezumi had seen before in his life. It made him feel strange. He wasn’t entirely certain he liked it, but he kept his face blank. _I am a Diabolik. I am a weapon. I am not meant to feel_.

 

“Perhaps the presence of so many Diaboliks will deter any further assassination attempts,” came the Chancellor’s voice, and the moment cracked around them like a broken window. Shion stepped back from Nezumi, who let his hand fall and thump against his thigh.

 

“Indeed, Chancellor,” said Senator Yamase. Nemesis stood at his side with his head bent forward. He was an invisible presence, waiting in the shadows to destroy. The stablemaster would be proud.

 

With a wave of his hand, the Chancellor dismissed the four of them. Senator Shion and Senator Yamase murmured their thanks and then turned toward the doors. Nemesis dipped in a small bow, though Nezumi knew the Chancellor would ignore him. He considered just walking out of the room—but Conquest’s lips drew back into a threatening sneer, and Nezumi nodded once. The Chancellor had turned back to his desk. Nezumi gave Conquest a stern look—a silent threat that passed between the both of them, the burn of an old rivalry—and then he turned and marched out of the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this chapter! Have an awesome day, guys!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, everyone. It's been a long time, hasn't it? My apologies. I've been going through some rather unpleasant stuff the past few weeks. My mother had to put down the family dog, so that's been rather upsetting. But some time has passed, and I managed to find a chunk of time in between my two jobs to work on the next chapter of this story. And so, it is with pride that I can say, here we go.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**** Shion stood looking out his bedroom window. His reflection stared back, but Shion peered past the ghost of white hair and scarlet eyes to watch the luminous stars of the Citadel. His thoughts went to the trek from the Chancellor’s office to his apartment—and to the silver-eyed Diabolik currently occupying his living room.

 

Nezumi, Shion remembered, had not spoken to him since they’d marched out of the office. Shion could still hear the powerful rumble of his voice as he’d introduced himself to the Chancellor. There was a deep power in him, something that no cage of flesh and hardened bone and quicksilver could hope to contain.

 

Shion reached up and brushed his fingers against his cheek. He could still feel the phantom weight of Nezumi’s fingers against his flesh.

 

He hadn’t been expecting Nezumi to touch him, but he remembered being told that it was part of a Diabolik’s bonding process to their new Master. It helped the Diabolik establish a sense for their Master’s shape, their scent, the feel of their presence. Shion didn’t understand  _ what _ about the minor physical contact would tell a Diabolik all that information—but he supposed this was due in part to the fact that he’d never put much effort into researching the science behind Diaboliks.

 

Since he had been a young man, Shion had been involved in politics. He’d risen through the ranks, using his intelligence and his advanced problem-solving skills to work his way through various positions in the pursuit of improving his community. Most of his resources had been spent on fixing the dying economy, on minimizing the amount of crime his home planet of Chronos had suffered in the wake of the war.

 

Shion had always known that other politicians, and even the Chancellor himself, had looked down on him due to his age. Highly intelligent or not, Shion was only in his early twenties. At twelve years old, he’d become the Speaker for his town. At sixteen, the Ambassador of Chronos. At eighteen, the Chancellor had asked him to take the position of Senator when the previous one had retired.

 

Shion frowned. His heart had ached at the thought of leaving his mother back in Chronos. Karan worked in a small bakery, and while business was strong enough for her to live comfortably, she lived on her own. Shion knew it was pointless to worry about her, especially when  _ she _ had been the one to encourage him to accept the new position and travel to the Citadel.

 

As a politician, Shion was accustomed to people watching him. He was a public figure. There were those who would recognize him face whom Shion had never met before. He had accepted this, and whatever miniscule twitches and jitters he’d suffered on his first day at Chronos had since been eradicated. Shion was  _ not _ shy, not in any definition of the word.

 

And yet he found himself feeling oddly unsettled as his thoughts traveled to Nezumi. He could see him quite clearly in his mind’s eyes—he was not the towering mass Shion had seen in the militaries, but lithe and quick and strong as marble. Shion’s mental gaze trailed over the memory of Nezumi’s expression, the stern impassivity and the haunting burn of his trademark silver irises. Shion was no stranger to the color of a Diabolik’s eyes, but he’d never stood so close to one before.

 

When Nezumi had reached out to touch him, Shion had searched those eyes for something—anything at all—to prove he was right all along. That Diaboliks were not mindless killing machines without a voice or feelings. He had dug desperately, taking note of the alternating shades, the pinprick of a black pupil, and  _ pleaded _ that he would find it.

 

He had found  _ something _ in Nezumi’s silver eyes. He wasn’t certain if it was happiness or longing or fear or confusion, but Shion had seen more than a blank slate. And that was enough. It was then that Shion knew Nezumi was not a mindless killing machine, that he was more than just a bioengineered weapon.

 

Shion turned away from the window and looked to his bedroom door. He twisted his hands into his robes, which he hadn’t removed since he’d returned to his apartment. He didn’t feel like looking at himself in the mirror. He was worried that he would begin to take note of his appearance the way Nezumi did, afraid that he would find all his imperfections and flaws and become self-conscious.

 

After a moment, Shion shook his head. He felt ridiculous. He was not a Diabolik, so no matter how long he studied himself, he would never see all the details the way Nezumi would. And more than that, it was foolish to be self-conscious about something as trivial as his appearance.

 

He’d never met Nezumi before today, and it felt strange to be anxious about his reaction. Shion wanted to make a good first impression, and he wanted to get along with Nezumi. But it would take time—and Shion was more than willing to take that time.

 

Diaboliks were powerful creatures. Shion understood that much about them. They were dedicated to their Masters, and created to be physically superior to humans and hyper-intelligent. Shion admired that about them, among other things.

 

After a few moments of staring at the door, Shion shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Nezumi was a Diabolik, and he was here because the Chancellor had ordered him to be. Shion dragged his fingers through his hair and thought about going to take a long, freezing shower. It would take some tinkering, but he was positive he could find a way to disable the automatic water heater.

 

It was foolish to think the Diabolik wandering his apartment could ever think of him like—like what? Shion dropped his hands to his side with a harsh, shuddering breath.  _ What _ did he want?

 

_ Calm down _ , he scolded himself.  _ You don’t know anything about this man. You met him only a few hours ago _ . He understood that there was something aesthetically pleasing about Nezumi’s appearance, and there was something attractive about him that went beyond physicality. Shion suspected his sudden flare of infatuation had come from an inherent interest in the Other.

 

Shion brought his fingers to his temples. He felt the onset of a small headache. Nothing serious yet, but if he let it settle, it would spread across his brain like a twisted weed and drive him mad.

 

He wandered to his medicine cabinet and took out a small red bottle of painkillers. He swallowed two of them without water. Headaches came with the territory—acting as the voice of your home planet, making decisions based on the best interests of your people, while also acknowledging the different needs of social classes, tended to stress out most Senators.

 

He rubbed little circles against his temples to soothe the headache before the painkillers kicked in. Some part of him wondered if he should go out into his apartment and find Nezumi. The Diabolik was new to this place, and Shion worried he would have some difficulties finding things.  _ I showed him where the bathroom is _ , Shion thought,  _ and the kitchen _ .

 

Nezumi hadn’t said a word as Shion led him through the small apartment. Chronos was not a large or a particularly wealthy planet, and Shion lived on his own, so he had no need for some of the larger villas other Senators owned. Shion knew Nezumi was surveying his surroundings and taking note of each nook and cranny, the halls and rooms and their contents, mapping out possible escape routes and picking out items that could be used as last-second weapons.

 

Shion had brought Nezumi to the little guest bedroom he had. There was a single twin-sized bed and an empty dresser inside, fit with a half-closet. Shion had apologized for the small space and offered to take Nezumi shopping for some new bedding in the morning. He hadn’t been expecting Nezumi to answer. The Diabolik hadn’t said much since leaving the Chancellor’s office.

 

That was fine, Shion decided. Nezumi would speak to him when he chose. And so Shion had left Nezumi in the living room, nodding his head and whispering, “Goodnight, Nezumi. I’ll see you in the morning.”  _ That _ had felt just a bit strange—saying goodnight to someone who would be staying with him, who would not be leaving first thing in the morning.

 

Shion returned his attention to the windows. The Citadel shimmered beyond. Shion wondered what Yamase and his new Diabolik—the small, copper-haired Nemesis—were doing at this time. Shion had met Yamase’s wife on a number of occasions, and he found it easy to imagine that she would argue. He could almost hear her now, telling Yamase how uncomfortable she was being watched by one of those “things”.

 

Shion frowned. Perhaps he would do something nice for Nemesis. He knew he would see him again. If he had to go with Yamase wherever he went, then it would make sense that Shion would run into him. He considered what he could do to make the Diaboliks feel welcome in the Citadel, what he could do to make Nezumi feel that it was safe to be in his apartment.

 

He had listed more than a hundred things before the painkillers kicked in. He dropped back on his bed, slipping into a deep, hazy slumber.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Simple. Not at all what I expected _ . Nezumi stood in the living quarters of Shion’s apartment. He absorbed the silence around him, using the lack of noise associated with the late-night Citadel to take in new information. It was his job to survey his surroundings at all times, acknowledging possible escapes, blind spots, and weapons.

 

Shion’s apartment was smaller than Nezumi had imagined. He hadn’t been expecting such a small bedroom—if he was allowing himself to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t expecting a bedroom  _ at all _ .

 

The stablemaster had forced the VCs to sleep on the hard ground. If one did exceptionally well in training, they were granted a feather cushion for the evening. More often than not, Conquest slept with a cushion while the others shivered and shook on the cement.

 

Senator Shion was an odd one, Nezumi decided. In addition to his rather bizarre coloration—winter-white hair, red eyes, pale flesh,  _ striking _ —he didn’t act like any of the Senators Nezumi had ever seen. He smiled more. He talked more, and most of it was aimed toward Nezumi.

 

_ That _ had been strange. Nezumi had been raised and trained to accept that whatever Senator or noble he was one day assigned to would ignore his presence until he was given an order.  _ Invisible bodyguards. Property. You’ll never be anything else. Remember that _ . Diaboliks were not meant to speak until spoken to, and sometimes not even then.

 

It could have been a trap. A test, perhaps, to see if Nezumi was trained as well as the stablemaster had promised the Chancellor. Nezumi kept his lips pressed tight as Shion had spoken to him. He’d acknowledged his words with only vague nods.

 

Nezumi traced the tips of his fingers along the back of the couch in the living space. Plush, comfortable, worn in some places from years of human weight thrown upon it. Lingering scents from other Senators clung to the material. Shion’s scent stuck out most of all.

 

_ Of course it does _ , Nezumi thought.  _ This is where he lives _ .

 

He drew in a deep breath. Shion’s scent was all over the apartment. It was subtle, but sweet—floral soap, clean human hair, the slightest bite of perspiration. A thin layer of cleaning chemicals stuck to the wooden tables and reinforced glass windows. Nezumi couldn’t smell the lingering stench of Service droids, so he suspected that it was Senator Shion himself who tended to the cleanliness of his apartment. Another oddity. The stablemaster had told him that Senators were selfish, lazy beings who hardly lifted a finger. Shion seemed to be the exception to many,  _ many _ rules.

 

Nezumi wandered over to the window. He caught his reflection, haloed by the Citadel lights: a heart-shaped face, dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, the tight black uniform that identified him as a VC Diabolik. Conquest, he remembered, was wearing sashes and decorations, but still black.  _ All Diaboliks wear black _ . Nezumi’s sterling eyes shimmered back at him through narrowed lids. He kept his expression blank, because that was what any passing Senators in their personal hovercars would expect of him.

 

_ Stupid _ . He shoved away from the window and meandered into the center of the living room. Shion had given him a place to sleep— _ And a bed, no less. How strange _ . Shion had also offered to take him out to the shops in the morning to get new bedding, but Nezumi doubted he would be sleeping much. Diaboliks only required a few hours, and even then, they were notoriously light sleepers. A properly-trained Diabolik could spring into action at a second’s notice, incapacitating an enemy before their eyes were fully open.

 

It didn’t matter. Senator Shion was treating him with politeness now, but once he grew accustomed to Nezumi’s constant presence in his everyday life, that would change. He would continue about his business as usual, and Nezumi would fade into the background and only speak or react when prompted.

 

_ Invisible bodyguard _ .

 

_ Silent protector _ .

 

_ Property _ .

 

Nezumi shook his head; the sharp ends of his hair struck his cheeks. For a moment, he wondered if Nemesis and Agony were settling into their new homes. The Senator Nemesis had been assigned to seemed...strange. Stick-thin, plain, frightened easily. It would be no problem at all to snap him into pieces. Even a Diabolik as small as Nemesis would be more than enough to dismember the Senator.

 

He knew nothing about Agony’s new Master, but he doubted it mattered. A Master was a Master. Diaboliks were not meant to form opinions on their Masters, or the Masters of their fellow Diaboliks.  _ Emotionless creatures _ . What good did vanity and jealousy do to a mindless killing machine?

 

Nezumi thought briefly of Nemesis. He was a perfect example of a silent assassin—he hardly ever spoke, and he could follow orders without question. His Master would find no fault with him. Nemesis was good at schooling his emotions, even in front of his fellow Diaboliks, but Nezumi knew he was just as afraid of death as the rest of them. 

 

If he were to fail—if any Diabolik was to fail their Master—then he would be decommissioned. Slaughtered, torn to shreds, cast into the frigid void of space or scrapped for spare parts.  _ The Eternal Threat _ . Diaboliks were trained since the moment of their creation to understand that failure meant destruction.

 

_ Never permit yourselves to fail _ , the stablemaster had commanded, his beady eyes flickering beneath the artificial lights.  _ Value your Master’s life above your own—for yours depends on their survival _ .

 

Nezumi glanced over his shoulder towards the hall. Shion had disappeared down it a little while ago, whispering a gentle goodnight. Nezumi hadn’t said anything in return. Part of him hadn’t known how to respond. Diaboliks were never told “good night”. The stablemaster simply turned off the lights and let those who were not prepared stumble through the sea of sleeping, murderous bodies.

 

Nezumi knew nothing about Shion’s bedroom. He supposed he should inspect it at some point—if he was going to be protecting the Senator, it wouldn’t do any good not to be familiar with his surroundings. He decided against going to investigate it now. Shion had said “good night”, and that must have meant he intended to sleep. Nezumi had no idea if the Senator was a deep sleeper or a light one.  _ Like me. Like the rest of us _ . He doubted the Senator would appreciate waking up to find a strange man in his bedroom.  _ Best to wait until he’s awake, then. Not much else to do _ .

 

He wandered through the apartment one last time. He took note of the large windows and the curtains suspended above them with nylon rope.  _ Potential weapon _ . A good-sized wrap-around couch, in the center of the main room.  _ Too heavy for a human to throw—child’s play for a Diabolik _ . Some small drawers and end tables.  _ The drawers can be used in a pinch. Drawers can be emptied _ . Nezumi doubted the wood was strong enough to break someone’s skull under normal conditions, but when added to the inhuman strength of a Diabolik’s swing, he imagined it would be more than enough.

 

For a moment, as he passed by the hall leading to what he suspected was Senator Shion’s bedroom, he paused. In a room he’d never seen was his Master. His  _ new _ Master. Nezumi’s senses were stronger than a human’s, and so he could hear the soft, deep breaths from behind the door. He could smell the concentration of Shion’s scent. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Senator smiling. Winter-white hair. Scarlet eyes. A strange scar around his eye.

 

Nezumi shook his head. None of it mattered. Things would change in time. There was no point in getting used to the Senator’s abnormal kindness when it wouldn’t last. He crossed through the living room and went to the guest bedroom. The room was bare except for a few things of furniture, but that was fine. Nezumi hadn’t been expected an actual bed.

 

_ Just a spot on the cold, filthy floor, nestled among dozens of other sleeping weapons. If one of them rolled over and accidentally struck him, he’d rip their arm off. Didn’t want to, had to prove a point. Lightsleepers waking up with snarls and shrieks. Gunmetal blood splattered on the ground and on sleeping bodies. Some didn’t wake up to the sounds of fighting—those were decommissioned, because a good Diabolik would not sleep through anything _ .

 

He perched on the edge of the twin-sized bed. The springs creaked beneath the sudden addition of his weight. He winced at the loud screech in the silence of the apartment.  _ The bed had not been used. Senator Shion never had any guests _ .

 

Nezumi stretched out. The mattress was firm, but oddly...comfortable. Better than the floor. There were no others to be conscious of, even if Nezumi was more often than not the one to wrench limbs off. His spine ached, having grown accustom to the solid floor of the corral. It would take some getting used to, this bed.

 

Senator Shion was somewhere close by. Nezumi hadn't heard floorboards creaking or cabinets closing, so he was probably correct in assuming his new Master had gone to sleep some time ago.

 

The bedroom where Nezumi suspected the Senator to be sleeping in was close enough that, if something were to go wrong, he could be there before Shion’s eyes were open. If he focused hard enough, Nezumi could probably also vanquish any threats before Shion woke up.

 

_ You are to be assigned to a Senator.  _ Nezumi remembered the stablemaster’s crackling voice as he’d arrived, wielding an electricity gun.  _ This is a lucky day for you, Nezumi. You should be thrilled _ .

 

A bad joke, but one the stablemaster enjoyed repeating. Diaboliks were not meant to be “thrilled” by anything.

 

Nezumi strained to listen to the sounds of the apartment. Since it was small, it was tucked into one of the residential villas. Shion had told him, among thousands of other useless things, that Senator Yamase lived ten floors down. Nemesis was closer to the bottom floor.  _ Less distance to fall if someone decided to throw him out the window _ .

 

He thought, briefly, of Conquest. Nezumi wondered if the Chancellor had given Conquest a bed to sleep in, too. Or, it could also be possible that the Chancellor had Conquest sleep in the same room as him. Perhaps even the same  _ bed _ . Nezumi remembered the way the Chancellor had dragged his fingers through Conquest’s hair, and the way the Diabolik had struggled to swallow down his revulsion.

 

Nezumi closed his eyes. The subtle scents of the room began to disappear. He counted backwards from one hundred, as he’d done in the corral to drown out the snuffling of other VCs.

 

By the time he got to fifty-seven, Nezumi was already starting to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued, hopefully very soon! I've already started on the next chapter, so with luck there won't be as long of a wait in between chapters this time around.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who have stuck with me through this! It really means a lot to me! Stay strong, and have an amazing day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for joining me in the first chapter of _their wicked minds_. I hope that all of you will continue to join me through the remainder of this story. I'm planning to have the next chapter done hopefully in the next few days; I've started a new job, so that's always a rather difficult time, but I'm planning to set aside some time for writing.
> 
> Comments are appreciated, but not required!
> 
> Have an awesome day, you guys!


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